John Norman - Nomads of Gor

He grinned, pressing against the net, trying its strength.

“No,” he said.

I, too, tried the net. The thick woven wire held well.

Harold and I had been fastened in a Turian slave bar, a metal bar with a collar at each end and, behind the collar, manacles which fasten the prisoner’s hands behind his neck.

We knelt before a low dais, covered with rugs and cushions, on which reclined Saphrar of Turia. The merchant wore his pleasure Robes of white and gold and his sandals, too, were of white leather bound with golden straps. His toenails, as well as the nails of his hands, were carmine in colour. His small, fat hands moved with delight as he observed us. The golden drops above his eyes rose and fell. He was smiling and I could see the tips of the golden teeth which I had first noticed on the night of the banquet.

Beside him, on each side, cross-legged, sat a warrior. The warrior on his right wore a robe, much as one might when emerging from the baths. His head was covered by a hood, such as is worn by members of the Clan of Torturers. He was toying with a Paravaci quiva. I recognized him, somehow in the build and the way he held his body. It was he who had hurled the quiva at me among the wagons, who would have been my assassin save for the sudden flicker of a shadow on a lacquered board. On the left of Saphrar there sat another warrior, in the leather of a tarnsman, save that he wore a jewelled belt, and about his neck, set with diamonds, there hung a worn tarn disk from the city of Ar.

Beside him there rested, lying on the dais, spear, helmet and shield.

“I am pleased that you have chosen to visit us, Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” said Saphrar. “We expected that you would soon try, but we did not know that you knew of the Passage Well.”

Through the metal bar I felt a reaction on the part of Harold. He had apparently when fleeing years ago, stumbled on a route in and out of the city which had not been unknown to certain of the Turians. I recalled that the Turians, because of the baths, are almost all swimmers.

The fact that the man with the Paravaci quiva wore the robe now seemed to be significant.

“Our friend,” said Saphrar, gesturing to his right, “with the hood preceded you tonight in the Passage Well. Since we have been in touch with him and have informed him of the well, we deemed it wise to mount a guard nearby fortunately, as it seems.”

“Who is the traitor to the Wagon Peoples?” asked Harold.

The man in the hood stiffened.

“Of course,” said Harold, “I see now the quiva he is Paravaci, naturally.”

The man’s hand went white on the quiva, and I feared he might leap to his feet and thrust the quiva to its hilt in the breast of the Tuchuk youth.

“I have often wondered,” said Harold, “where the Paravaci obtained their riches.”

With a cry of rage the hooded figure leaped to his feet, quiva raised.

“Please,” said Saphrar, lifting his small fat hand. “Let there be no ill will among friends.”

Trembling with rage, the hooded figure resumed his place on the dais.

The other warrior, a strong, gaunt man, scarred across the left cheekbone, with shrewd, dark eyes, said nothing, but watched us, considering us, as a warrior considers an enemy.

“I would introduce our hooded friend,” explained Saphrar, “but even I do not know his name nor face only that he stands high among the Paravaci and accordingly has been of great use to me.”

“I know him in a way,” I said. “He followed me in the camp of the Tuchuks and tried to kill me.”

“I trust,” said Saphrar, “that we shall have better fortune.”

I said nothing.

“Are you truly of the Clan of Torturers?” asked Harold of the hooded man.

“You shall find out,” he said.

“Do you think,” asked Harold, “you will be able to make me cry for mercy?”

“If I choose,” said the man.

“Would you care to wager?” asked Harold.

The man leaned forward and hissed. “Tuchuk sleen!”

“May I introduce,” inquired Saphrar, “Ha-Keel of Port Kar, chief of the mercenary tarnsmen.”

“Is it known to Saphrar,” I inquired, “that you have received gold from the Tuchuks?”

“Of course,” said Ha-Keel.

“You think perhaps,” said Saphrar, chuckling, “that I might object and that thus you might sow discord amongst us, your enemies. But know, Tarl Cabot, that I am a merchant and understand men and the meaning of gold, I no more object to Ha-Keel dealing with Tuchuks than I would to the fact that water freezes and fire burns and that no one ever leaves the Yellow Pool of Turia alive.”

I did not follow the reference to the Yellow Pool of Turia.

I glanced, however, at Harold, and it seemed he had suddenly paled.

“How is it,” I asked, “that Ha-Keel of Port Kar wears about his neck a tarn disk from the city of Ar?”

“I was once of Ar,” said scarred Ha-Keel. “Indeed, I can remember you, though as Tarl of Bristol, from the siege of Ar.”

“It was long ago,” I said.

“Your swordplay with Pa-Kur, Master of the Assassins, was superb.”

A nod of my head acknowledged his compliment.

“You may ask,” said Ha-Keel, “how it is that I, a tarnsman of Ar, ride for merchants and traitors on the southern plains?”

“It saddens me,” I said, “that a sword that was once raised in defence of Ar is raised now only by the beck and call of gold.”

“About my neck,” he said, “you see a golden tarn disk of glorious Ar. I cut a throat for that tarn-disk, to buy silks and perfumes for a woman. But she had fled with another. I, hunted, also fled. I followed them and in combat slew the warrior, obtaining my scar. The wench I sold into slavery. I could not return to Glorious Ar.” He fingered the tarn disk.

“Sometimes,” said he, “it seems heavy.”

“Ha-Keel,” said Saphrar, “wisely went to the city of Port Kar, whose hospitality to such as he is well known. It was there we first met.”

“Ha!” cried Ha-Keel. “The little urt was trying to pick my pouch!”

“You were not always a merchant, then?” I asked Saphrar.

“Among friends,” said Saphrar, “perhaps we can speak frankly, particularly seeing that the tales we tell will not be retold. You see, I know I can trust you.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“Because you are to be slain,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

“I was once,” continued Saphrar, “a perfumer of Tyros but I one day left the shop it seems inadvertently with some pounds of the nectar of talenders concealed beneath my tunic in a bladder and for that my ear was notched and I was exiled from the city. I found my way to Port Kar, where I lived unpleasantly for some time on garbage floating in the canals and such other tidbits as I could find about.”

“How then are you a rich merchant?” I asked.

“A man met me,” said Saphrar, “a tall man rather dreadful actually with a face as grey as stone and eyes like glass.”

I immediately recalled Elizabeth’s description of the man who had examined her for fitness to wear the message collar on Earth

“I have never seen that man,” said Ha-Keel. “I wish that I might have.”

Saphrar shivered. “You are just as well off,” he said.

“Your fortunes turned,” I said, “when you met that man?”

“Decidedly,” he said. “In fact,” continued the small merchant, “it was he who arranged my fortunes and sent me, some years ago, to Turia.”

“What is your city?” I demanded

He smiled. “I think,” he said, “Port Karl”

That told me what I wanted to know. Though raised in Tyros and successful in Turia, Saphrar the merchant thought of himself as one of Port Karl Such a city, I thought, could stain the soul of a man.